


The Absolut Stories

by pollybywater



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-08-13
Updated: 2004-08-13
Packaged: 2017-10-18 13:57:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/189589
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pollybywater/pseuds/pollybywater
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Written in 4 parts for Sentinel Thursday challenge # 51 - 'losing control' and # 52 - 'dreams'  Individual ficlet titles noted within the text.</p>
    </blockquote>





	The Absolut Stories

**Author's Note:**

> Written in 4 parts for Sentinel Thursday challenge # 51 - 'losing control' and # 52 - 'dreams' Individual ficlet titles noted within the text.

  


'Absolut Truth'

*

"WHAT did you DO to him?"

Jim yelled the question in his patented 'you're three seconds from death' voice, sending chills down the spines of every man there.

Joel looked sheepishly at Henri who shrugged one shoulder towards Rafe who tipped his head in Simon's direction... and Simon winced, decanting an almost liquid Sandburg from the security of his arms into Jim's.

Surely with Jim holding Sandburg the rest of them would have time to get away.

Simon hoped.

"Somebody spiked the punch. We didn't find out until Blair passed out," Joel offered in a quiet voice.

"At a fucking retirement brunch?" Jim asked disbelievingly as he carried Blair to the sofa, settling the younger man with care. Blair let out a pitiable groan, which prompted Jim to glare at his friends even though Blair didn't really awaken.

"None of US knew Sandburg hadn't eaten today, Detective. Maybe if YOU'D been there you would have smelled the goddamned vodka Mrs. Price poured into the punch," Simon retorted.

Herman Franklin's retirement party hadn't been the easiest occasion for Simon, either. Retired - again - from training horses, Herman had been in a rather maudlin mood, regaling them all with stories about his late friend Ben.

Still on duty, the remainder of the 'Cigar Club' had stuck to coffee, and hadn't realized until it was too late that the innocuous looking fruit punch was kicking Blair's ass.

Jim sighed, aware of his friends' regret.

"You're right, Simon. I'm sorry. Thanks for bringing him home."

Simon accepted that with a wave, motioning Joel, Brown, and Rafe toward the door in the same gesture.

"I'll see you Monday, Jim. Tell Blair he has my sympathy for the hangover he's going to have tomorrow. At least he's got all weekend to recover."

"I'll tell him. Bye, guys."

Jim listened to a chorus of farewells and then locked the loft door, returning to crouch at Blair's side. The odor of vodka hung around Blair in a warm cloud, but to Jim's relief, no tobacco aroma obscured Blair's natural scent.

Jim studied the pale features. He'd seen Blair a bit buzzed, but never shit-faced to the point of losing control... but then again, he'd never seen Blair drink much of anything besides beer or wine. Given Blair's inability to hold it, no wonder the younger man generally avoided hard liquor, Jim decided wryly.

Just then Blair opened one eye and focused on him blearily.

"J'm? Zatchoo?"

"Yeah, buddy. How ya feel?"

"Dunno. How'd I get here?"

"The guys brought you home."

"Huh. Nice. Wha' happened?"

"Mrs. Price doctored the punch."

"Oh, man. She's so sad. Kep' talkin' 'bout bein' lone now." Blair reached for him, startling Jim with the strength of his grip. "Doan wanna be 'lone. Can't lose ya. Would die without ya, Jim. Love ya so much. Doan ever leave me."

The hand on his shoulder loosened, and Blair was out once more, leaving a stunned Jim Ellison blinking with astonishment.

Blair loved him?

***

'Absolut Denial'

*

Jim awakened with a start, dismayed to find the loft bright with sunlight. It was obviously late in the morning. Intending to keep watch on Sandburg, he hadn't intended to sleep at all, which explained his currently painful position slumped against the back of yellow chair.

Straightening slowly, Jim looked over at the sofa, expecting to find his friend still asleep. He was startled to find Blair sitting at the table, head in hands, eyes closed, and nose virtually buried in a cup of coffee.

He hadn't even heard Blair moving around, and briefly wondered exactly when Blair's presence had become so much 'ground noise' in his often clamorous life.

That mental question revived his numerous uncertainties from yesterday afternoon. Jim still didn't know what to think about Blair's drunken confession of love. Part of him- a large part -was secretly elated at the idea that Blair might mean genuine, romantic love. Another part wanted to pretend he'd never heard those slurred, emotional words. What if Blair had actually only meant the love of friends?

The whole damned subject scared him senseless, pun intended.

He rose, momentarily unsteady as the nerves and muscles of his neck and limbs griped at getting restored circulation... finally making his way into the kitchen and pouring his own cup of coffee.

Blair glanced over at Jim briefly, emptied his cup, and slid it across the table in a silent plea. Jim refilled it and handed it back black, hiding a grin when all Blair did was breathe in the fumes.

"How ya feel?" He asked to Blair's wince.

"Man, keep your voice down," Blair whispered, rubbing at his temples. Jim got out the tylenol and passed that over as well, smirking when Blair grimaced at the rattling sound of the pills. He opened up the bottle and shook out three of the extra strength tablets, swallowing them with a gulp of coffee. "What the hell happened, anyway?"

Jim frowned, taken aback.

"What do you mean, what happened?"

"I mean, what happened? Shit, am I speaking a foreign language here or what?"

"Excuse me?" Jim said a bit loudly and Blair held up one open palm in a classic 'talk to the hand' gesture.

"Look, man, give me a break here. I feel like warmed over crap. The last thing I remember is talking to Mrs. Price about her husband's murder. What'd she do, hit me with something?"

"Something," Jim said, mind working furiously. Was Blair saying he had no memory of what happened after Simon brought him home? What did that mean in terms of what Blair had said to him?

 _'Doan wanna be 'lone. Can't lose ya. Would die without ya, Jim. Love ya so much. Doan ever leave me'._

Jim sighed. Trust Blair Sandburg to throw another spoke in the wheel of an already out-of-control situation.

"According to Simon, Mrs. Price spiked the punch with vodka, which you drank until you passed out."

"Oh, great. That's just great. I passed out in front of my boss, most of Major Crime and two dozen blue-haired upstanding citizens. Can this get any worse?" Blair clutched large handfuls of his hair and lowered his forehead to the table, barely missing his remaining coffee. "Damn it all to hell."

"Come on, Sandburg, the guys feel awful about it-"

"Is that supposed to make me feel better, Jim, because it doesn't. Poor little Blairy-wairy, can't hold his liquor and needs somebody to take care of him."

Jim shook his head, nonplussed. Blair's bitter tone prompted him to ask the questions he ordinarily would have avoided like the plague.

"You don't remember anything? Not the ride home, not Simon carrying you up-"

"Simon _carried_ me? Shit, shit, shit, shit. Of course it can get worse. What was I thinking?" Blair shoved his chair back so abruptly that Jim jumped and spilled his own coffee.

"Blair-"

"Just leave me the fuck alone, Jim," Blair snarled, sounding remarkably like his spirit wolf for a moment. "I don't want to talk about this ever again, you got me? And if those jokers down at the station rag on my ass about this, there's gonna be trouble, so you'd better warn them."

Blair whirled, staggered briefly, and then stomped off towards his room, leaving his dumbfounded Sentinel staring after him, mouth agape.

Now what?

***

'Absolut Reactions'

*

By late Saturday afternoon, Jim was ready to tear out his hair with frustration. Sandburg had been asleep the better part of the day - aside from the occasional trip to the bathroom - and even though Jim knew it was the most painless way for his friend to get over what had to be a killer hangover, he'd resented that innocent sleep.

At sundown, a pale Blair dragged himself back out into the living area and plopped down on the sofa next to Jim, who ignored him, attention firmly fixed on the basketball game on TV.

Politely waiting until a time-out, Blair cleared his throat.

"I'm sorry, Jim. I shouldn't have yelled at you like that, and I apologize. The truth is, I _can't_ hold my liquor, not when it comes to spirits. I black out and the hangovers are evil. I get unbelievably cranky."

"Yeah, I noticed, Sandburg," Jim unbent enough to say, trying to soften the words by gentling his tone. "Forget about it."

"You're too funny," Blair noted with a snicker, and Jim finally met his gaze, relieved to see the humor back in those deep blue eyes. Grinning too, Jim rose and got Blair a bottled water from the refrigerator, handing it to him with a longsuffering grunt.

"Here, you're probably dehydrated."

"Thanks, Jim. You're probably right."

For the entire next quarter of the game, they sat quietly, except for occasional muttered curses about ill-timed violations and missed free throws. Blair drank his water, retrieved a second bottle, got Jim a beer, and at half-time popped popcorn.

It was just like a hundred other evenings. Jim reconciled himself to letting the last twenty-four some-odd hours go... and admitted how much he regretted the idea of doing that.

"You should eat something besides popcorn," he heard himself say as the third quarter started. Blair sighed, handing him the bowl.

"That's for you. I can't eat yet," Blair replied with a grimace.

"Something with tomato sauce and spices would help soak up the acid in your stomach," Jim insisted doggedly, knowing full well that Blair hadn't eaten since dinner Thursday. "Let me call in a pizza."

Blair gave him an irritated glare, and then shrugged in resignation.

"Sure man. Sounds good."

And things were back to what passed for normal, much to Jim's secret dismay.

***

Not for the first time, Blair wondered what in the hell was wrong with Jim Ellison.

There'd been something 'off' about the man for a couple of weeks, now. Initially, Blair hadn't noticed, then he hadn't been sure what to make of it. It wasn't a blatant change. Jim had been just a little more attentive than usual. Making sure Blair ate daily, watching him at odd moments, stepping in a time or two to intimidate the guys into silence when their usual good-natured bullshit got too deep.

Stuff like that. Take today, for instance. Jim had gone off to a routine dentist appointment, which was all well and good, but he'd arranged to have a deskbound Blair's lunch delivered beforehand, an act that had finally startled Blair into thinking.

It had taken him some time to correlate the onset of Jim's weirdness with his 'lost weekend', as he persisted in calling it inside his mind. Once he'd established that episode as the beginning of the change in Jim's treatment of him, it became obvious to him that during his blackout, he must have said something, or done something, that was still bothering Jim.

In fact, once he given it some thought - that is, observed, questioned, analyzed, and hypothesized based on his and Jim's recent interactions - Blair had been forced to conclude that he'd apparently committed the unforgivably stupid act of confessing to Jim how he really felt.

Which is to say, evidently he'd told Jim he was in love with him, and Jim didn't know how to treat him now, because Jim didn't return those feelings. Not that he'd thought Jim would, of course... but having proof, having Jim tiptoeing around and watching him like some kind of unstable, emotional time-bomb - that hurt.

Hurt a lot, to be honest about it, because it implied Jim didn't trust him to control himself.

He laughed rather bitterly, imagining Jim's likely reaction should he lose it and jump Jim's bones.

Yeah, that was soooooooo not happening.

He pitched his half-eaten lunch in the trash and left the break room, and was heading for his desk when Simon intercepted him.

"Sandburg, Dr. Riddle's office called. Go pick up your partner and take him home. They had to do more than they planned and they don't want him to drive. Let me know if he's not safe to leave alone."

"Sure, Simon, will do. Thanks."

Sighing, Blair made his way down to the parking garage, feeling vaguely sick when it occurred to him that maybe he'd already lost control and tried jumping Jim's bones during his blackout.

It would explain a few things.

***

"What did you give him?" Blair demanded, one hand on a giggling- _giggling_ -Jim Ellison's shoulder, keeping him pressed to the waiting room chair.

Al Riddle, Jim's long-term dentist, gave Blair an apologetic shrug.

"Look, Blair, you know I'm familiar with Jim's... sensitivities. This was an accident. The nitrous was leaking in the exam room next to his and before we knew it-"

"He was affected," Blair finished, rolling his eyes.

"Nitrous is a pretty short-acting agent. The effects shouldn't last much longer," Dr. Riddle supplied delicately.

"I know, Al. Help me move him and I'll take him home."

"Dage be hobe, 'thahboog," Jim echoed, speech almost unintelligible between a mouth anesthetized by Novocain - which was as far as the dentist had gotten - and a sentinel-snoot full of nitrous oxide.

Between the two of them, they managed to get a wobbly Jim safely buckled on the passenger seat of the truck; Blair deciding it would be more trouble than it was worth to try to get Jim folded into the Volvo's front seat. After promising he'd tell Jim to reschedule an appointment for the filling that Jim wasn't getting today, Blair was on his way back to the loft with one seriously polluted partner.

"Hugwee an' futhtee," Jim announced mournfully as they drove past a Wonderburger. Blair reached over and briefly patted Jim's thigh.

"As soon as the Novocain wears off, man, I'll feed you. Promise."

"Dagth, 'thahboog. Ahwayth debed on oo." Jim reached over and mimicked Blair's gesture, but his fingers lingered to squeeze Blair's thigh... and then moved up. Slowly.

Shocked, Blair felt his eyes go wide and hurriedly gripped Jim's hand, pulling it- off. Before he drove them into a utility pole.

Pole. Guh.

"Jim? What are you doing?"

"Oo wub be, oo thed tho. I wub oo, too. Dage be to bed?"

"Oh, fuck."

"Dath wight. Fug," Jim said, nodding happily, regarding him with sparkling eyes and a lopsided - very lopsided - smile.

Blair Sandburg was never so glad to see the turn onto Prospect Avenue in his life.

***

'Absolut Proof'

*

By the time Blair got Jim inside the loft, he was damp with sweat and hard as stone. He'd managed to evade any public displays of affection, but having been trapped on the elevator with a horny Jim Ellison had just about put him over the edge.

Jim was still out of control, still buzzing off his high, which was lasting entirely too long for Blair's comfort. People weren't supposed to be affected by nitrous oxide for any extended length of time, and Blair wanted to kick himself for not anticipating it would be one of the things that affected that sentinel brain a bit differently.

He abruptly forgot his self-recriminations when a pair of strong arms wrapped around his chest and pulled him backwards... and God help him, Jim was hard, too, rubbing against his ass in an erotic little shimmy that really made Blair want to _not_ do the right thing.

"Jim-"

"Bed, Bwair."

Oh, hell, no. This wasn't exactly his dream come true. They couldn't do this while Jim was impaired. It wouldn't be right, fair, or legal, for that matter.

Summoning strength he didn't know he had, Blair twisted - whimpering as that hot iron rod slid across his ass - ignored Jim's groan, and ducked out of Jim's grasp. In pushes and pulls, Blair managed to get Jim to the sofa and tried to maneuver him into lying down. Complying a bit too easily, Jim grabbed Blair's wrist and snickered as he yanked Blair into falling on top of him.

"Kay, Bwair. Wight here!" Jim grabbed his ass and squirmed against him, and it was his turn to groan. Loudly.

"Jim! Jim, wait!" Blair flattened his palms against Jim's chest, levering his upper body away, which turned out to be a rather stupid mistake when it resulted in putting even more pressure on his groin. _Jim's_ groin. "Oh, fuck."

"Yeeeeeeaaaaaaaahh," Jim agreed breathily, setting a whole new series of fires sparking along Blair's nerves.

Frantic now, Blair gave a mighty shove and ended up in the floor. Jim reached for him and he scuttled backwards, hands warding Jim away as Jim rolled into a sitting position and started to get off the sofa.

"No. No, we can't do this," Blair insisted shakily. To his surprise, Jim subsided and pouted at him - actually _pouted_ \- lower lip sticking out like an invitation to sin.

Blair caught himself licking his own lips.

"Look, Jim, I've gotta call Simon and let him know we won't be back this afternoon. And you- you have to sleep this shit off. When you're awake and in your right mind, we'll- we'll do whatever you want, okay? Please. Just. Sleep. It. Off."

"Fide, 'thaboog. I get id," Jim said huffily before he lay back down and promptly turned his back on Blair.

Blair sat for a moment, scrubbed his face with his hands, then got up to call Simon.

It was going to be a long fucking - or rather, no fucking - afternoon.

***

Jim awakened feeling surprisingly good. His mouth was a bit sore from the Novocain injections, but it was nothing he couldn't easily dial down. He was relieved that the numbness was gone.

Shifting over, he caught sight of Blair, who'd dozed off in the yellow chair. It was a role-reversal that made him smile; touched by the worried frown that lingered on those tired features.

Christ, Blair really did love him. Sappy as it sounded - even inside his own head - it gave him a warm fuzzy feeling to know that Blair loved him enough to protect him even from himself. Blair had been desperate to avoid taking advantage of him despite Blair's own arousal... and Blair had been _very_ aroused, something he hadn't needed sentinel senses to notice.

Moving silently, Jim got off the sofa and knelt at Blair's feet, resting his hands lightly on Blair's strong thighs. Blair sighed, his eyes slow to open until he caught sight of Jim. Then they widened dramatically as he jerked upright in the chair, startled.

"Jim? Are you okay? How do you feel?"

"I feel just fine." Jim's fingers flexed as he squeezed Blair's legs gently. "You feel just fine, too," he added, watching while Blair gasped and blushed, those remarkably blue eyes darkening as their pupils expanded.

"Jim, I- What are you-"

"You said whatever I want, remember? I want, Blair."

"Oh, God. Jim, wait, the nitrous-"

Jim pushed Blair's legs further apart and scooted between them, running his hands up Blair's body to rest them high on Blair's chest, until his fingertips could brush over warm, bare skin.

"The nitrous wore off before we got home."

"What? But you-"

"I pretended," Jim confessed, hands moving almost independently of his will, burrowing under the fragrant weight of curls to learn the fine curve of Blair's skull. "I had to know if you meant what you said. _How_ you meant it."

He drew Blair's face closer to his own, letting their breath mingle.

"You love me," he whispered against Blair's lips.

"Yes," Blair replied simply, and kissed him.

***

Much later, they lay curled naked together in Jim's bed - _their_ bed - hands still idly stroking each other's sated, exhausted flesh.

Jim cleared his throat and spoke.

"You know I love you."

"I should hope so, after this."

"Smartass."

"That's not what you were calling it half an hour ago," an amused Blair pointed out to Jim's low snicker.

"I can't believe you're not mad."

"Nah. You can take the boy out of covert ops, but you can't take the covert ops out of the boy," Blair said in a tone of great long-suffering, an effort he spoiled by laughing out loud...

...and a thankful Jim, who was absolutely intoxicated by that open joy, had to laugh, too.

Sometime tomorrow he was going to send Mrs. Price some flowers.

End  
13 August, 2004


End file.
